


Soldier

by Touchefrappe



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All of that nasty shit, Angst, Black Character(s), Black Reader, DDLG, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, I don't know where this story is going, Oral Sex, Post-Black Panther (2018), Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Spanking, Sugar Daddy, Vaginal Sex, WIll probably update as I go along, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-22 03:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17655548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Touchefrappe/pseuds/Touchefrappe
Summary: If his status ain't hoodI ain't checkin' for himBetta be street if he lookin' at meI need a soldierErik/N'Jadaka x black!reader





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's spelled "Erik," instead of "Eric." It's intentional.

“Whatchu lookin’ all mean for?”

Your arms are folded tightly across your chest and your brows are stitched in a tight unit. You feel more uncomfortable than “mean,” but you do rock a nasty resting bitch face—It’s easy to misidentify your mood, but the eyeroll you give doesn’t really help your case.

“I’m-“

Your heart plummets to the deepest darkest part of your stomach, shattering into a million angry swarming butterflies upon impact. This man easily stands six feet tall, his tall stature dwarfing your embarrassing five foot two. You literally have to lift your head an entire eighty degrees to look this man in his eyes, which are dark brown and swirling with amusement. His short dreads are lazily cornrowed to the back of his head, highlighting his oval face shape and rugged expression. He looks mighty mean himself for someone trying to call you out.

“I-I’m not **mean** ,” you stutter, “I’m just…uncomfortable.” Your sentence gradually gets softer, ending in an embarrassed whisper. Amazing. You managed to cash out all of your four confidence points in 0.25 seconds. The heat you’re radiating could easily sizzle an egg and you’re wary your makeup is melting off your face—it’s already greasy as hell. Your feet lead you where your mind cannot, stepping you back a few paces to try and put some distance between you and this chiseled, muscular godlike man. 

His left eyebrow lifts in a momentary bout of confusion, but he easily shakes it off with a shrug, repositioning himself to lean against the wall.

“So, what? You never been to a party before?”

You’re a bit offended by the insinuation, but you’re too anxious to rebuttal with a snarky comeback. Your arms just end up tensing and tightening beneath your breasts, unintentionally displaying your cleavage. His eyes can’t help but wander—you do have a rather large bust. You always wished you could swap the sizes of your breasts and your ass. You’ve always felt a bit cheated by god—that punk gave all the ass to all the other black girls but got stingy when it came to you.

“ **Yes** , I’ve been to a party before.” So much for not being mean, but you’ve grown more than a little annoyed at this point. “I just don’t know anybody here. I came with my coworkers but they kind of ditched me the moment we got here.”

He grunts with acknowledgement and nods his head. Then, there is that awkward silence that promptly makes its way into almost every conversation you have. Dear god, why are you like this? Why can’t you just be chill; go with the flow; be a free spirit? You always have to make things weird, although, he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence; he just takes a sip from the beer in his hand and lazily considers your person. Not but maybe thirteen agonizing seconds later and his head nods off to the side to look over at the girl calling his name. She’s light-skinned and littered in tattoos. Her eyes are a soft hazel, and her hair is effortlessly curly and long, hitting just beneath her collarbones. She is beautiful, and the sight of her makes your chest tight. You admire and envy her.

Her eyes lighten up when she spots the man you’ve had this short and unpleasant interaction with, and confidently makes her way over. She immediately goes in for a hug and he obliges, the hand not holding his beer settling on her ass. 

Damn. She’s pretty, has long curly hair, _and_ a fat ass? Meanwhile, your looks: whack. Your hair: whack. Your ass: whack, though you’re working on that one; your personal training is making sure of that. But why in the world did you decide to come to this party, other than to alienate and humiliate yourself? Oh, right. Free alcohol, which you could **really** use right now. 

Their hug last for a drawn out six seconds and you can see the lust in his eyes as he smacks her ass. She laughs and playfully hits his shoulder before putting the tiniest bit of distance between the themselves; that’s when she finally notices you. You can see the attitude conjure behind her eyes like she’s trying to hex you, giving your person a disinterested size before asking Eric, you guessed is his name, who you are. Remembering you, he looks back, his hand still comfortably seated on her perky fat ass. 

“What’s your name, baby girl?”

Baby girl: He just says it so nonchalantly, like he doesn’t know what that word does to you; granted he doesn’t, but you sure as hell do. And like clockwork, your body grows much, much warmer. At this point you are the literal human equivalent of a volcano bubbling over ready to burst. Being called baby girl really just opens the flood gates on your panties and should not be spoken to you by anyone who is not ready to give you that big daddy long stroke. Mr. Eric should watch his mouth, and your inner hoe needs to shut up, because Eric and this girl are looking at you expectantly, the girl growing visibly more annoyed the longer you take to answer.

You are equally annoyed, if not more so, as the girl standing prettily next to Eric. You take an irritated breath to calm your nerves before steadily saying your name. Sometimes your attitude outweighs your anxiety and this girl is triggering all sorts of alarm bells that is making you incredibly defensive. If Eric wanted to comment on how mean you look now, you would whole-heartedly agree, because you are feeling mighty mean right now. You’ve never been in a fight before, but you’re sure you can take her if need be (though you would prefer not to as the thought makes you incredibly anxious).

Eric hums in acknowledgement, gaze leisurely journeying down the curve of your body before making its way back up to your own. The girl notices and snorts to herself while rolling her eyes.

“Anyway,” she starts, trying to redirect his attention, “I haven’t seen you in a while. You gonna come through tonight; chill at my place after the party?”

Eric acknowledges the woman with a neutral grunt, but his eyes refuse to leave your own. He is giving you this strange unreadable look. His expression is incredibly aloof, which unsettles you as you don’t know what he’s thinking and also you’ve never had a man look at you for this long. But on the bright side, you are the master at being aloof, so you’re able to counter him with an equally unreadable stare. 

“Lemme get back to you on that one, T. T. I might be busy later.”

She sucks her teeth and promptly removes herself from whatever is going on between you and Eric—this strange telepathic stare-down, if you will. Oddly enough, despite the weird air, you feel a bit more comfortable. You think he notices too. He nods his head over in the direction of the kitchen, signaling you to follow him. “Lemme get you a drink.”

Okay. Yeah. Sure. Your hands are really, really clammy, but this is why you came to this stupid party in the first place: the alcohol. Also, the party isn’t stupid, you’re just too anxious to enjoy it, but after a couple shots you will loosen up a bit more. Or a lot a bit more. Alcohol, unsurprisingly, makes you incredibly social. Maybe you should have started off with the alcohol instead of just awkwardly brooding and looking “mean.”

He leads you to the kitchen and sets his beer down on the counter, turning to lean against it. “So, whatchu drinkin? You wanna beer?”

“No.” Your eyebrows scrunch in absolute disgust. He may as well have insulted your mother. “That shit is nasty.”

There’s that amused look in his eyes again, but this time its complimented with a small smirk.

“Beer nasty, huh? Whatchu tryna say?”

Your eyes squint in confusion. Did you not make yourself clear? “Uhh…that beer is nasty.”

This time he chuckles, and his mouth opens wide enough for you to see the two gold fangs on the bottom row of his teeth. There’s gonna be a clean up on aisle three if this man keeps at it. “Whatchu want then.”

That dick. You want that dick, but best guess that’s not on the menu.

“Vodka, “ you counter.

“Okay,” he smirks. “Whatchu drink it wit?”

“I drink it straight.”

That seems to impress him for some reason. Maybe because you look like the type of person who can’t stand the taste of alcohol, which is absolutely correct, but you drink it none the less, and in large quantities at times. 

“But don’t worry bout it. I can fix my own drink.” Following this you reach for the bottle of mango Amsterdam and the package of plastic shot glasses conveniently idling next to Eric. Yeah. This will do just fine. You pour the vodka into the tiny cup all the way up to the rim and swiftly down it after giving a teasing “cheers.” The taste is horrendous, and your face puckers in disgust but god did that hit the spot. Without hesitation you make another round and quickly down that one too. You can already feel the loosening of your muscles and the buzzing sensation and your lips form into a lazy but appreciative smile.

“Wow. I love alcohol so much,” you whisper to yourself. 

He chuckles at that before asking if you’re good. You turn to settle down next to him and lean back on the counter, standing way closer than you would have had you not just taken two shots. 

“I’m doing amazing.”

He chuckles again. “You goofy as hell.”

That comment prompts you to glare over at him. “You know, I preferred it when you called me baby girl.”

“Ah,” he sighs enlightened, turning to face you, “So you like being called baby girl, huh?”

You mimic his actions and turn to face him, a sly smile making its way to your lips. “I do actually. I like being called that a lot.” 

He smirks. “Ok, _baby girl_. I got you.” 

You two do that weird telepathic staring contest thing again, but this time with an air of playfulness. You're tipsy and your mood has done a complete one-eighty, not too mention you have this fine piece of man looking at you like you really are his baby girl—like you’re his pretty princess. It’s a bit overwhelming but puts this strange joy in your heart, like maybe you don’t look as bad as you always think you do. And this weird flirty banter is honestly what you need. Lately you’ve just felt so undesirable. You’ve been hating your hair, your style, your appearance-- damn near everything. It’s not anything new, but its been especially bad lately. Capturing this man's eye, this man who is **way** out of your league, is giving you a much-needed confidence boost. And the way he grabs your ass and pulls you towards him makes you really believe he likes something about you. And something is good enough for right now.

You have to crane your head up to look at him. Your head barely meets his chest, and boy are those pecs nearly bulging from his shirt. You really wanna kiss em’ but control your compulsion. He tilts his head down so his face is parallel to your own. Damn. His lips are thick and juicy and you want to take a bite out of his bottom lip. You can’t even look away, they look so soft and kissable, but he lifts your head up even further so your forced to look away. He has a shit eating grin when you look him in the eyes, which are smoldering and half lidded. 

“So, whatchu doin after this, baby girl?” His breath is warm and smells like Big Red, and you about lose it because cinnamon is your absolute favorite smell in the entire world. You’re a little slow to respond because your just so mesmerized by this beautiful man, but you eventually find your words.

“Nothin’,” you whisper. “I ain’t doing nothing after this.”

He hums in understanding, eyes alternating between your eyes and yours lips. 

“You tryna come through?” At this you can’t help but chuckle. 

“You move quick. Wasn’t you just feelin’ on that T. T. girl’s booty. You not gonna chill with her?”

His smile seems to widen at that comment. “I told her I might have other plans.”

“So, what? Am I supposed to be those other plans?”

He shrugs, smile not breaking for a second. “I don’t know. You can be.”

This mother fucker. This mother fucker is so fine he _knows_ your ass LITERALLY cannot resist him—especially with those goddamn dimples. How much more beautiful can this man be? Despite knowing full well that you will be in this man’s bed by the end of this night, you decide to play coy. Playing games and being petty are your favorite pass times. 

“Mmm…lemme think about it.” 

You should consider yourself a comedian with of how often you’ve made this man laugh. You’re guessing he doesn’t do that too often. He seems like the stoic type: expressionless other than maybe anger or annoyance. But his chuckle is warm and honey-coated, vibrating almost every bone in your body. His voice alone could send you over the edge. 

“Why don’t you think on this, baby girl.” The grip on your ass tightens as he shoves your pelvis even further into him. You can feel the imprint of his dick on your tummy. It’s solid and thick and getting you light headed just thinking about it fitting inside you. He will **literally** destroy you. And you’re just the type of nasty bitch that wants to get obliterated—the quiet type that nobody expects to be a freak, but everybody expects to be a freak. It’s always the quiet ones they say, and their absolutely right. You’re not so quiet when your getting your back blown out. 

“Y-yeah. I—” your mouth is so full of saliva you have to gulp down your spit before speaking less you drool all over yourself, “I think I’ll come through.”

He cradles your freshly buzzed cut head, then leans down to peck your greasy ass forehead. His lips make a trail down to your ear, his breath birthing gooseflesh all over your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been inspired by the stories "lil bit" by jahleesi and "What You Need" by intodust. Their works are absolutely amazing! I wanted to add to this collection of amazing Killmonger stories and decided to write my own. The reader is heavily based off myself-- dark skinned, awkward, oddball of a black woman. I hope you can see yourself in the reader. Writing this is really therapeutic. No smut in the first chapter but rest assured it is coming. Hope you stay along for the ride and we can see where this story takes us.


	2. Chapter 2

You always wear cute underwear whenever you go out. You never expect anyone to see them, and most times that ends up being the case, but thank god you decided to wear some today—it’ll save you the embarrassment of undressing in front of this beautiful man and revealing the comfortable cotton granny panties you usually sport. You can’t help but give yourself a pat on the back. He seems like the type to enjoy pretty lingerie. You would love to show them off, but you’ve got to get to the damn car first. 

You’re no expert at walking in heels, and you feel it shows. You’re not stumbling over yourself like a newly born baby deer, but you’re definitely not as graceful as that T. T. girl. She struts like she walked her first run-way in the womb. But she’s not the one with Eric’s arm around her waist, so you’ve got to be doing something right.

He’s leading you to his car, albeit a bit slowly since it's literally taking you five years to walk an inch. There have to be at least thirty or-so cars clustered around the cul-de-sac and it’s hard to guess which one might be his. You’re not well versed in cars, not even being able to match which logos belong to which brands, but you know the moment you step up to what ultimately has to be his car, that it’s incredibly expensive and probably cost more than your entire life’s earnings up until this point. 

So, wait—you’ve got to get this straight: he’s beautiful **and** rich…and he wants **you** out of all people? There are a fuck ton of way better looking people at that party and this man settles for you? This cannot be right. You’re dreaming; you’ve got to be, but the smack on your ass begs to differ, and that shit fucking stings. 

“Ouch!”

“Quit daydreamin’, baby girl. Get that ass in the car.”

You glare at the back of his head as he leads himself to the driver side door. There is a subtle dip as he enters, and it prompts you to open the door and get in as well. He seems like the impatient type— he’d drive off and leave your ass if you took too long. 

The inside of his car is clean and has that stereotypical black ice smell. The interior is all black and the hardware is shiny. The car starts with the push of a button, and naturally his hand gravitates to the gearshift. You put on your seat-belt, notice how he doesn’t put his on, and then your off.

Shit. So, you’re really doing this then. You’re in this man’s car, heading to his place, however many minutes away from getting dicked down. You can _feel_ the anxiety rolling from your body in waves. You’re sweaty, tense, and can’t look anywhere but straight ahead. He’s driving recklessly, too: going in and out of traffic and driving way over the speed limit. It’ll be a miracle if you make it to his place without having a heart attack.

Funny enough, your anxiety likes to gaslight you— often times you feel like your overreacting to very valid reasons for worry and concern, like this one for instance. You’re in a car with a man you don’t know, he’s driving like his ass ain’t black and the cops won’t pull him over, and he’s big and tall and can easily overpower your tiny ass. No amount of alcohol can quell this rising sense of unease, but a little voice in the back of your head is shouting for you to calm your ass down. 

This is a casual hook up. People do this all the time. One-night stands: you’ve never had one, but you’ve seen enough movies and heard enough stories to know the drill. You go to his house, you fuck, and then you leave. But, shit! Can this dude just make it a little bit easier and not drive like a mad man? And where the hell are you going anyway? Your oblivious ass is so caught up in your own damn head you haven’t been paying attention to your surroundings. His ass could be taking you to Kansas for all you know. 

Shit! Okay. Just think. Fuck—

Eric’s baritone voice beckons you with the soft lull of your name. His head is straight forward but he’s side eyeing you with an arched eyebrow. You probably look like you’re about to jump out the damn car, which honestly isn’t too far from the truth. 

“You aight?”

No; not really; not at all, in fact, but you’re not going to tell him that. When in the world are you ever gonna get the chance to hook up with a man that looks like him again? Never, so you’ve got to calm the fuck down before he throws you out of his car his own damn self.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You’re good. _You’re good._ You. Are. Good.

“I’m good.” Your voice is shaky as hell and not convincing in the slightest. 

“You sure, cause you tense as hell. Finna have a panic attack just watchin’ yo ass. ”

You stay silent, completely embarrassed and unable to respond. He’s also quiet for a few short while, probably contemplating what to say next to calm you down. “We ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”

Shit. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. Your anxiety has got you judging this man’s character way too harshly. He genuinely seems like a decent guy, albeit a bit reckless. And In all honesty, if you had this man’s car, you’d probably drive a bit recklessly too. This shit runs smooth and fast, akin to the agility of a panther. 

“Y-yeah I know,” you sigh, upset that you’re ruining the mood. “I just…” 

You just what? Wasting this man’s time? ‘Cause that’s exactly what the hell you’re doing right now. He made a mistake when he picked you. Your uptight ass can’t chill worth shit.

A heavy defeated sigh leaves your nose and you attempt to speak again. “I’ve just never… done this before is all.” You're caving into yourself, trying to escape his inevitable scrutiny. You sound like a fucking child. You might as well be one with how your ass is acting. This was a bad idea. Damn liquor got you looking dumb now. He should’ve just gone with that T. T. girl. 

“Nah,” he barks, “I ain’t with all that insecure shit.” That startles you. You’ve stopped at a red light and he’s facing you, left hand still on the steering wheel. He looks irritated as hell. “You too fine to be actin’ all shy and shit.”

 _This motherfucker_ , you think exasperated. You ain’t “actin’ all shy and shit.” You **are** all shy and shit; it’s a goddamn personality trait, and the only reason you’re not back at that party sulking in the corner is because of **his** initiative and those two shots of vodka. And fuck him because it’s damn near asinine for you to even think about needing a man’s validation, but damn does that shit feel good! It’s got your heart beating all fast and shit.

He’s mean-mugging you and sizing you up and down. After a moment of scrutiny, his eyes settle back onto your own, and whatever he sees brings him to some sort of ultimatum. The light turns green, but he doesn’t turn back to the road until he gives you one last hard stare. 

“Lean ya chair back and spread ya legs.”

Lean your chair back? Spread your legs? Did you hear that right? You’re absolutely dumbfounded. Your mouth is ajar, and your eyebrows are raised in shock. You cannot catch a break with this dude. It’s like he bulldozes through the atmosphere every time he speaks. It’s suffocating and feels like pins and needles.

“I’m not gonna repeat myself again.”

Fuck. Okay. So, you did hear him right. You thought maybe you misheard him, or maybe that it was even a joke, but apparently, it’s not. What’s funny though, is that you obey. Your heart’s beating a mile a minute, and you’ve begun to stress sweat. Lucky for you, you’re wearing a tube dress, so no noticeable pit stains. Your hands shakily grab the lever on the side of the seat and the descent down is akin to being lowered into a grave. Silently you spread your legs and let out a heavy sigh. Yep. You’re doing this. It’s totally happening. 

His hand is oddly gently as it sits against your thigh. It doesn’t venture very far up your dress but idles just above your knee, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin. The gesture is sweet as he is obviously trying to comfort you, and kudos to him because it actually works. You’re just so attracted to him it’s making you tense , self-conscious, and sweaty (more than you usually are). In reality, all you want is for him to touch you and call you his baby girl again.

“Relax. I got you.”

You visibly relax after a few moments of him rubbing the top of your thigh. It feels innocent and sincere, though those thoughts easily stray as his hand travels further up your thigh. The juxtaposition is uncanny; his hand feels heavy and rough, but his touch is so gentle. He has the power to hurt you; to be rough and aggressive, but he doesn’t. Some part of him senses that's not what you need right now. 

His hand slides to the apex of your inner thigh, your bright orange dress rising with his hand. He gropes the flesh there and rubs your warming skin. The heat of his hand sends electricity straight to your core, gorging your already stiffening clit. But you want more friction; to feel his hand glide across your swelling lower lips. His thoughts don’t stray too far from your own, as the path his hand broadens, swiping across the border of your panties. Thick, nimble fingers prod along the fabric that decorates your pussy, teasing and beckoning your legs wider. Obeying his silent demand, your legs spread further, blooming opportunity for your growing desire. His three middle fingers creep beneath the snug material of your panties, caressing the supple flesh of your left outer lip. He strokes the flesh there before his middle finger pulls back on said lip to spread your pussy and create room for his index to lightly pet your pulsing clit. The feeling floods your emotional dam, ordering your anxiety to cease whilst beckoning the fire birthing between your legs. Your hips grind up into his touch, encouraging him to be more forthcoming. 

The whole of his hand cups your pussy, fingers prodding your hole to collect your steadily leaking essence. Coated in your wetness he slathers your clit, quickly oscillating his hand side to side unyieldingly. It’s overwhelming how good it feels. Unable to subdue the pleasure building within you, a squeaky feminine moan escapes your lips. He chuckles. 

“You like that, _baby girl_?” His voice is so velvety and deep. The sound tingles your eardrums and echos within your mind. That sweet, sweet that word makes you pliable and wanton: baby girl. That word holds the key to your inhibition. 

“Answer me,” he demands, hand speeding in motion, “and take them titties out.”

Your hands waste no time in shoving your dress and strapless bra down your chest. Your breast heave over the top of your bra, nipples growing hard from the blasting AC. You're so overwhelmed you can’t speak, so you nod furiously, eyes fluttering open from their clenched state to look over at his still driving figure. It’s a wonder how he’s able to multitask so effortlessly. Had you been in his position you would have surely gotten into an accident already. Luckily, you’re not the one behind the wheel, and as anxiety provoking as this scenario is, your mind cannot reflect on anything other than the hand snuggly nestled between your thighs. 

“Speak,” he commands. He looks over to you for a short second to convey his conviction, before focusing back to the road. Your mind is so frazzled but you’re more than compelled to follow his orders. You’re easily influenced.

“Yes,” you stutter, eyes struggling to stay open. “I like it,” you say, voice plateauing into a breathy whine. “I-I like it a lot, daddy!” The word just slips out. He is resonating so much energy and you feel small beneath his hand. You enjoy the feeling of being dominated like this; with care and sincerity; doting and patronizing you like a child. That shit turns you on. 

The chuckle that comes both excites and frightens you. Does he like that? Does he like being called daddy?

He hums before speaking, clearly delighted by your words. “You makin' a mess,” he observes, emphasizing his point by swimming through the stickiness that has pooled down the cleft of your ass. He moisten and prods at the tight ring of your asshole before venturing back up to glide across your clit. “Daddy’s got this pussy nice and wet, huh.”

You’re not sure if you're supposed to answer, but you do just in case. You don’t want to disappoint him.

“Yes, daddy,” you squeak. Your voice is getting high pitched and breathless, climax just beyond the horizon. “My pussy’s so wet. Please," you plead, "I want it. I want it so bad.” What is it you want exactly? You're not sure, but you sound like you’re on the verge of tears. You get overwhelmed easily and cry even easier. Your skin is just so sensitive, and god! the way he touches you; how he speaks to you-- its overstimulating. 

“Whatchu want, baby? Tell daddy whatchu want.”

You whimper, upset he’s making you work so hard. “Please,” you whisper, grabbing his muscular arm. His steady movements gently jostles you to and fro. “Fuck me,” you finally muster.

These words trigger something within him. He whispers a drawn out “shit,” hand spiking in speed for a few short seconds before retracting from your panties. You’re confused why he stops, body lifting and eyes shooting open to investigate. His sucks his fingers into his mouth and savors your essence, moaning from what you can only guess is the taste. His chest is quickly rising and falling, and he heaves a deep heavy sigh to calm himself down. Eventually, both hands firmly grip the steering wheel. Your body suddenly shoots back from the unanticipated speed of his car. Whilst fondling you, his driving had been careful, but now that his full attention is on the road, he’s back to driving like a maniac. You’re disappointed and a little scared, but suspect your words did a lot of damage. Now he’s rushing to get home. 

You slump back into your seat, huffing that you’ve managed sabotage your own orgasm. Your heart’s beating fast and you’re uncomfortably wet as the fabric of your sobbing panties is sticking to your core. You decide to take the panties off, lifting your butt to remove the irritating material. The pulsing of your clit is aggressive and incessant, which is frustrating considering how close you were before. But the feeling is unignorable. You begin to rub your inner thighs just as Eric had, sighing from the relief it brings. You're going to begin where he left off. You collect the wetness from your clenching hole and bring it to your clit. It provides a satisfying glide and you start a rhythmic flow, left hand continuing to gently caress your inner thigh. 

“Look at you. You was actin all shy before, now you over there touchin’ yourself. I knew yo ass was freaky.”

“I can’t help it,” you whine, frustrated that he’s interrupted you. He’s unleashed the sex kitten—once that doors open, its hard to satiate your impulses. 

“You good, baby girl. Do whatchu gotta do. Just know Imma tear that ass up when we get home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty, smutty, smutty, smutty. Smuutttyy. More smut next chapter. Hope you enjoyed this one :3 Lemme know watcha think <3


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